The red glare who shoved you to the sidewalk microseconds before a taxi crushed you, the streak who caught you before you hit the ground when you jumped to end it all, the stoplight smear of motion who raced every child out of a house fire, can’t take living his life in slow motion. This is a world for human turtles. I’m not built to pace.

Imagine you’re stuck in traffic with every off-ramp closed. You’re late for a meeting, and bursting to pee. Every car in your way rolls in centimeters. You’re trapped, left to repeat Patience. Patience. Patience. This is every second of my life.

This life is designed for those who read menus one letter at a time, who amble with their eyes on their phones at the rate of sloths filled with Nyquil. There’s no hope you’ll ever hurry. Tonight I’ll rush to save another dragging soul, and as a gun flashes and bullets dart toward an innocent nameless you, I’ll brake in the line of fire. One of you will be spared when I refuse to bolt toward salvation. I will barely twitch, be more statue than flesh and bone— one of you.